Holmes is Always Right
by HeartsHungBehind
Summary: Challenge for FH96: shwatsonlock fluff oneshot with the prompt word 'lady fingers.' I don't really have a description of it, so this will have to suffice...


**A/N- The oh so fabulous FH96 recently challenged me to write a Shwatsonlock with the prompt word 'lady fingers.' She's clearly on crack, but I have to fill this because I love her -.- Oh, the price of having Olivia around.**

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I own no part of the Sherlock Holmes franchise...**

Sherlock sat in his dark living room, brooding as he watched a fly buzz from one of the deep red curtains over to the mantle. If John was still living with him, he would be in a tizzy because of the insect and would have immediately killed it. Watson, however, was somewhere in the country at the house Sherlock refused to visit, probably having a quaint supper with that _woman _Sherlock refused to get along with. So instead, the fly was allowed to roam about his flat unharmed while he glared at it, hating it for what it represented. He glanced at his revolver, which rested on his nightstand with a round of bullets in the drawer below it. He considered shooting the fly, for he was much too lazy to stand up and kill it like the average human being.

There was a knock at his door, and Holmes groaned loudly. It was as if the woman could read his mind. "Mrs. Hudson, I promise not to fire at it if you leave my tea at the door and get away. Now."

The doorknob turned, but the padlock and chain prevented the landlady from entering the flat. "Holmes, what in the world are you saying?" she called from the hall.

Sherlock huffed and pushed against the armrests of his chair until he was in a remotely upright position. He stood and shuffled to the door, unbolting it and sliding the chain off its perch. "The tea. Give me the tea." It wasn't until he heard a cough from behind her that Sherlock realized Mrs. Hudson wasn't just here to bring him his evening tray. "Watson?"

The doctor rubbed the rim of his hat between his gloved fingers. "Holmes. You look well." Holmes gave a noncommittal grunt and opened the door wide. John thanked Mrs. Hudson and took the tray. "So, what is it that you _don't _plan on shooting today?"

Holmes pointed at the fly, which darted past their heads and stopped at the wall. Watson made a disgusted face and smashed his hand against the wall, scowling as he wiped the dead insect from his leather gloves. "There. Now, come and have tea with me."

"Why are you here?" Holmes asked. He was never one for mincing his words.

Watson frowned. "I'm not allowed to visit you?" he asked.

"No," Holmes replied, lighting a pipe and turning away from his old companion. "You are only allowed to be here if you plan on staying."

Watson sighed. He walked over cautiously and put a hand on the detective's shoulder. "I brought lady fingers," he said, trying to bribe Holmes into turning around or at least _saying something_. Holmes stiffened and asked quietly, "From the bake shop down the street?"

John bit his lip. "Mary made them, actually."

Holmes turned to look at Watson and blew smoke in the man's face. "I don't want any. They're probably poisoned."

"Don't be silly," Watson said, taking one off the tea tray and biting into it. Holmes would have a fit if he noticed all the crumbs that had just spilled on the carpet. "Look, I can eat them!" he said, spewing more crumbs as he spoke.

"You've already been given the antidote, she slipped it into your evening drink."

"Holmes!" The detective jumped when his friend unexpectedly yelled. "Mary is not trying to poison you!" John bit into the rest of the lady finger and brushed off his hands.

Holmes stared at him with longing. "You have something in your mustache." Watson furrowed his brow and brushed the wrong side of his face to try and catch whatever was there. Holmes shook his head. "Let me get it." He strode up to the man and wiped at his cheek. Watson was frozen as Holmes looked at him, pausing quickly before standing on the balls of his feet to kiss the side of John's mouth. "Come back," he said sadly, resting his head on the taller man's shoulder and wrapping his arms around John's waist.

"I can't. I- I want to be with Mary now, Holmes."

"No, you don't," Sherlock replied. "If you wanted to be with your wife, that is where you would be. But you are not with her, you are with me. And she's trying to kill me with her poisoned lady fingers."

John kissed the other man's forehead. "She has nothing against you, no reason to poison you."

"Her husband is in love with me, that's a rather good reason to commit a murder."

Watson raised an eyebrow and glanced at the sweet yellow pastries. "Alright, if you're that worried then don't eat them." Yet he dipped one in a cup of tea and took a bite, knowing they were safe.

Holmes pulled away from Watson and sat in his armchair. "Well, you've brought me the lady fingers, I suppose you can go now. Back to your wife."

"Actually, Mary thinks I'm with a dying patient. Usually, when I'm with someone who is passing, I can be gone for days at a time."

Holmes ducked his head to hide his small smile. "I'm rather sick, I don't know when you'll have the chance to leave."

John brought his hands down on Sherlock's shoulders and kissed his curly hair. "Fine by me. I'd rather be here," he said quietly. "This place... will always be my home. You're right."

Holmes laughed for the first time in what felt like months. "As usual."


End file.
